


In Medias Res

by Thrace Addicted (Amidala_Thrace)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amidala_Thrace/pseuds/Thrace%20Addicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who am I? What am I? When am I?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Medias Res

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my claim of Kara Thrace at Theatrical Muse, using the prompt "In medias res" ("In the middle"), and also applied to the fanfic50 prompt "Undecided." Spoilers through S4.5's "A Disquiet Follows My Soul." Originally posted February 23, 2009.

She feels the stares as she walks the corridors.

They accuse. They question. They condemn. But no accusation, question or condemnation could possibly equal those she levies against herself. _Who am I? What am I? When am I?_

Nothing makes sense. Up is down, left is right, black is white, good is bad, Cylons are friends yet no one trusts them. Kara is in the middle of all of these, and as hard as she looks for the escape hatch, as hard as she tries to wake up —

she —

just —

_can't_.

The stares. The eyes. Everywhere she goes, eyes. She wonders if they can see right through her, to that private place where she has locked her fears and her questions.

_What am I? WHAT AM I?_

He'd walked away, the traitor. He, who had been the one to show her the destiny, who had led her down this path, walked away. Now she has no one. She'd taken her body (_my body how the frak is that possible?_) and built a funeral pyre, buried the ashes afterwards. It seemed the thing to do. But she'd done that alone. No Leoben. No Sam. No Lee. No one. Just Kara. Whoever that is.

_I need to talk …_

But it didn't matter, because everyone else has bigger concerns. Everyone else has their own demons to wrestle with. She wants to talk to Lee, _needs_ to talk to Lee, but suddenly Kara is not the only frak-up. Suddenly _everyone_ has something. Lee has his failed marriage, and Dee's suicide. Sam's a Cylon. The Old Man has the Fleet. Leoben won't speak to her. She is not the only frak-up now, but she has never felt more alone.

_"… anesthetizing yourself with alcohol and empty affairs …"_

She finds herself in the pilots' rec room, staring into her ambrosia. Trying not to remember all the other times she's sat here, seeking solace at the bottom of a glass. (_I have memories. I still have memories. I must be me, right?_) With drink clouding her mind, she could always think better, comprehend more possibilities. But now … now she sees herself in the middle of a picture, a picture that has neither beginning nor end. Gaeta comes towards her and she thinks _Finally, finally someone to talk to, finally someone in whom I can confide_, but he's not, he's not. Frak, he's not.

Instead more accusations fly. Cylon-lover. Sympathizer. Coward. Oh, she's heard them all before. Just not thrown right in her face. Before (before her death? disappearance? resurrection?), she could always count on her reputation preceding her. Now it's open season. Starbuck Season. Hit her and she won't hit back. Question her loyalties and she'll nod and agree with you.

_I just want to hurt someone, and it might as well be you._

She strikes. ("At least I'm not a cripple. Don't think I won't hit you just because you're a gimp.") It's almost worth it to see his face, to know that he wasn't expecting it. She savors her victory. It's not enough. But for now, it has to be.

_I just want to hurt someone, and it might as well be you._


End file.
